Desired intuition
by Somaendure
Summary: In the midst of the night, John worries for Abigail's participation in the gang. A one-shot.


Pale thin sheets wrap tightly around creamy and scarred naked skin. Legs are entwined against one another among the king sized bed, while arms sleazily dangle over the mattress at an undisrupted corner. An eerie bitterness floods throughout the dark room, it's only source of light grows from gloomy shattered beams by the moonlight. Together they lay peacefully, clutched into a deep embrace, exchanging body heat in an attempt to be warm. Although, only he thinks it as a chattering wintriness, beside him lays a creation of youth, beautiful fair skin covered in tiny faded freckles scattered across nose to cheeks. To him, they seem identical to stars, which in his thoughts he renames them as 'skin stars'. Her skin is something of a raging fire, even the subtle touch of his fingertips to sweep a loose strand of unkempt hair away from her face burns his tips. Her eyelids are closed tightly, quivering every few seconds, evidence that she's suffering in some sought of painful experience; enough to earn the bulk of a man next to her with a distressing expression. Beads of sweat rest upon her brows, prickling up enough to slowly flow down her temples. Her hands quake from the forced grip upon the paper thin sheets, as she had removed her grasp around her husband's biceps previous to prevent any activity of nail piercing incidents. He resists her urge to force him off her, to which she exhales a dismayed sigh and a sharp prod into his naked side.

"John, you're a fucking furnace! Stop touching me-"she exclaims. Before she can finish, a burst of intense pain jolts her up straight among the bed as she lets out an uncontrollable howl.

"Abigail…" he speaks soothingly. A crack straining his voice shows evidence of fear and anticipation. He subconsciously ruffles his fingers in the depths of her hair.

Her hands gently take hold around her enlarged belly. Being seven-months pregnant has caused her stomach to protrude ever so uncomfortably. John briefly watches her movement. Her eyes instantly fix upon his dazed expression, trying to scrutinize what he's really feeling. The twenty-year-old never looked paler in his entire existence, his youth starting to drain from his veins. Worry started to creep into the depths of his eyes, appearing more on the edge than resting peacefully.

"God damn. It's too humid in here. John, stop taking up all of the bed!" she protests. Her voice is throaty, interrupted every few pauses by an unpleasant cough. She shoves his palm away from the side of her face in frustration. He sighs heavily with a strong presence of disbelief, curling his fingers into his weathered palms. "Why is it so darn hot?!"

"It's not me, it's you. You're the one with a baby in their belly." He snickers through his damaged voice.

She replies almost instantly with a strong sense of arrogance twisting her voice upon John's contemptible remark. "Excuse me?" Her accent is strong as well as threatening, an intimidating glare switching to his gaze. A painful break of silence creates an illusion that both are somewhat two strangers sharing rest upon a weakened mattress, stiff positions and discomfited touching of the limbs. Fragile movements, rustling of the sheets, separated touch begins to dawn upon him. Thoughts unable to focus, panicking seizures in the midst of his mind confuse him on his judgement that would this actually plan out as a happy ending. He scrambles to his side, back opposite to her chest. Arms tousled carelessly over the edge, eyes squinting from exhaustion combined with lament.

"Anything bothering you?" shocked by her sudden interruption mid silence, which seemed like a passing memory. Eyes flickering violently, searching for a reasonable response divided by a dismissed gesture from a full honest explanation.

"Nothing bothers me." He responded dryly. Unable to return to his previous position to linger into her misgiving eyes, he ponders deeply, wallowing silently before her. "It seemed that only yesterday, your life belonged to that of the entire gang. I saw how they treat you, Bill, I mean." lumps forms in his throat. Powerless to compose his barely audible whisper, John remains absent, eyes fixed onto that of brittle coal, settled beneath the fireplace. Abigail, shocked by his sudden expression of concern, arises softly from the clammy sheets, to which she places a cold touch upon his toned shoulder.

"John, you don't fool me. What are you yammerin' about?" Opening with a slight sarcastic approach, mixed with coarseness; she was weary from the pregnancy that she couldn't search for a subtle answer. Moreover, the room abruptly became shivering cold, maybe because that dreadful hot flush passed over so she could now sense the frosty air. Seconds that felt like hours transcended into restrained takes of breath; still, no answer. "John?" she repeats. Again, and again, quietly, raising a bit more every time. "John?"

Finally he grasps the true concept deep from the nightmares of his mind; replying with cautiousness. "Bill, he hit you." Her eyes flutter lightly beyond observing his words. "Yesterday I was talkin' to Dutch. I left to go retrieve Bill, and there he was. It was dark, but I could just make it out. By the river, you were cleaning some cloths in the river, and, I… I saw him hit you." He finally ends the proclamation with a repeated silence, yet again. She sinks herself next to him, still clinging to his shoulder for support. Curled beside him, her free arm wraps around his chest similar to a blanket, in which he soothingly rubs her arm in exchange. "If he ever dares touch you again, I swear I'd-"

"John, its okay. Shhh…it's okay." She tenderly chants.

"It's not okay, Abigail. You're the only thing I have. The only thing I've ever loved. I can't let you be pursued and wrecked by other foul-mouthed men in the gang. I'll protect you."

And with that, those three singular words strengthen the release for anger, frustration and affection. Following this, John lightly raises his radiating body, turning in motion, preparing the moment to connect mouth to mouth. His face is inches from hers now, cold breath reflecting off the softness of her skin. Slowly, his lips quiver in the melt of her touch; sensitive nerves tingling among the tremor of his tongue. Hands wrestle against each other's palm, messing hair in the process. Begging for air, she releases her caress from his, gulping followed by a ticklish giggle. Hearing such a sweet and innocent formation of laughter brings him a wide grin. He takes hold of her blushed cheeks, returning her head to his palms. Enfolding her form; enduring the moment. From lips of his mouth he blew a bewildered question that would've never crossed her mind.

"Will you be my wife?"

Incredibly stunned by his significant question, her only response of that is completely inexpressible, instantly turning her whole attention to his coy expression.

"What?"


End file.
